Every time Chrome opens up, PeanutButterAndJellyHandprints stares at me from the opening page. With how long it has been since I posted anything, it’s begun to feel vaguely accusing. It’s difficult enough to drag myself out of bed and through the day, recently. I’m not sure why. And finding myself collapsing exhaustedly halfway through every day, I’ve been working to spend every other remaining minute with the children and Dear Husband. I cannot give myself to them and the page. So the page waits. And waits.

Besides, it is difficult to write without honesty. Very often, I could label my writer’s block, if willing to do so: Honesty. Not to say that I am an untruthful person. Far from it; if it didn’t matter, it wouldn’t be a problem. It matters because I juggle my ability to convey what I mean with my limited capacities and worry that anyone who might read it (you are reading this, so somebody must!) might become worried or judgemental, either because life isn’t perfect today and I admit it, or because I mis-convey what I meant. Yes, I have been unusually tired, lately. Probably due to stress and lack of exercise. Minor depression? Maybe, considering repeated schedule changes, enduring job uncertainty, and a budget that’s been shoestring for the last five years. But best not mention the ‘D’ word, lest someone panic. Honesty, versus having a partially known audience (maybe?) with unknown possible reactions. Can I say what I mean and have it understood as meant? Two articles have already died quiet deaths, while countless others have remained unwritten. Despite my desire to reach out via open honest words and embrace other women, to say “it is alright to admit that motherhood, in the midst of it’s wonderfulness, is hard.”

How much else in life goes unrealized because of these fears? Much, much, too much, I think.